Authors Note: Sorry it's been such a long while since I've posted a new story in this series

Authors
Note: Sorry it's been such a long while since I've posted a
new story in this series. This one really is different to my other so
I hope you enjoy it. And once again I apologise for the delay.

Disclaimer:
I own nothing.

I try to
keep my hands steady as I read over my latest patients file, I flip
back over to the blood panel results and scan through them again,
rubbing my eyes harshly as if it will make any difference, which,
after I've rubbed them a few more times, I realise wont happen.

Closing
the file I slam it down on my desk and let out a strangled cry,
dropping my head into my hands I will away the moisture that is
quickly gathering behind closed lids, but it's no use, the moisture
rapidly turns into tears that make no hesitation in breaking free of
their constraints and travelling a slow and agonising path down my
cheeks.

I lift my
head wearily and swipe my cheeks, drying them off with my shirt
before roughly pushing my sleeves past my elbows and loosening my
tie, this isn't supposed to be happening, not now, not…ever.

Running my
fingers over the thick black lines that make up the identity tag of
the folder I can't help but notice the irony of it. The name is
written in permanent marker, and what lies beyond the name is
so…permanent.

It isn't
so much what's in the folder, but the few lines that make up the
name on the folder, they seal the fate for that one person, and 70
of the time there's nothing anybody can do about it, no matter how
many tears are shed, hugs shared or chemicals are prescribed.

How I pray
that this time falls within the marginal percentage of survival
rates, that this time there's something I can do, all of course
without the hugs and tears; they wouldn't want that…no, not at
all.

I lean
back in my chair and slowly sink into the soft leather, letting it
envelop me until I feel that I'll never get up again, I don't
want to, maybe I can just stay here all day, all week…for the rest
of my natural life, that would make everything a hell of a lot
easier.

But I know
this can't happen, not if I want a chance at saving him, saving
myself as it were. So I grasp each side of my chair and push myself
up, just to grab the phone and then sink back down again, preparing
myself for pure mental exhaustion.

"You
need to come to my office," I say as way of greeting, sparing the
chance of any responding argument by hanging the phone up as soon as
my speech ran dry.

So I sit
and I wait, knowing that of course he isn't going to come any time
soon, it'd all have to be done on his time, because I guess it is
his time that's on the verge of running short, his life being
stretched to its limits again.

I don't
know how he's going to handle it, hopefully better than I am, he's
that type of person I suppose, able to hold in all of his emotions,
hide them away from prying eyes, unlike me, Jimmy the Wonder Boy
Oncologist, who always wears his heart on his sleeve.

"What?"
He asks, half an hour later as he stalks into my office.

I raise my
head and lock eyes with him, mine red rimmed and puffy, his bright
cerulean blue with a spark of mischief behind them.

I drop my
gaze back to the file on my desk and he takes this as an invitation
to take a seat…not that he's ever needed an invitation before.
Again I let my fingers travel along the permanent black lines that
have effectively sealed his fate, before I lift my eyes and sigh in
contemplation, wondering how to tell him.

Before I
can even open my mouth he's effectively started and ended the
conversation with one sentence, "It's positive, I've got
cancer, I'm gonna die."

"Geez
Greg," I grind out between clenched teeth, "act a little more
humble why don't you."

His eyes
widen and he leans forward, resting his chin on his can, "You mean,
it really is positive, fuck Jimmy, I was just breakin' the ice."
He whispers, the realisation hitting him like a tonne of bricks.

I open my
mouth to offer some words of comfort, but for the first time in my
career I can't formulate any combination of words to soothe him, or
offer him any type of condolences.

He stands
up quickly and turns around a few times before flinging his cane out
in front of him, effectively smashing a line of ornaments that sat
along the front edge of my desk, and even though they hold no
importance to me I still can't help but cry out in objection.

"Greg,"
I say softly, staring him in the face, "Sit back down. Please."

He looks
at me for a few moments, seemingly deciding whether to continue
smashing up my office or to obey my request, before sighing and
sitting down, his eyes glazing over as he tries to control his
emotions.

"There's
treatments, you know, we haven't caught it early enough but there's
a chance surgery could –"

He cuts me
off, looking me straight in the eye as tears trace never before taken
paths down his cheeks, "Surgery, I want…I-I want the surgery, I
want the drugs."

I nod
slowly, almost too surprised by the sudden show of emotions to do
much more, "Okay," I breathe, "We'll schedule it for
tomorrow." I find myself unable to look him in the eyes any longer
and instead take to reading over the thick black lines again and
again.

"Just…please
Jimmy, please just don't let me die."

Gregory
House, Gregory House, Gregory House. I read it over and over
again until I hear his last desperate plea.

"Please
Jimmy, Please."

I raise my
head slowly but still I can't meet his eyes. How was I ever going
to live with myself?

I'd just
given my best friend a death sentence.

Don't
let me die Jimmy.

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